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The Corner


March 19, 2021

Some more of my pseudo-sonnets for my class of 1974 in the old white high school building, for this week. I haven’t gotten bogged down yet within writer’s block gumbo. When you write what you know, or at least what you think you know, the words flow like augered wheat.

Memory lane, seems mostly overgrown,

Not as if jackpine thick, but still obscured,

But I’m winding my way, kicking pine cones,

My heart lifts inches, beats far from austere.

Kelly one of a kind, some glad, they groaned,

Keith, utilitarian — he procured,

Lynette with strawberry grins, country sewn.

Bryce in parable strides, early matured.

Kris, the island’s professor, class flagstone,

All I know, this project’s enjoyed, I’m lured,

With the words chosen for this stew, full-blown,

What, only twenty-eight accounts secured?

Good times, sometimes hard for us to dredge up,

At the water's surface, porcelain cup.

Kelly Gundlach

Cannot but say, Kelly was a handful,

For teachers back — in those years erstwhile,

He, a twelve volt battery, of strong pull,

He was all boy, portrait, roguish guile.

Kelly scored at the class top, and pulled our wool,

He, bright as sun, rays shone to his style,

And he worked hard at their place, that no bull,

One childhood weekend I observed, work piled.

It, a nice time to see his life, truthful,

Their cow was milked, I helped, without rile,

With cats gathered, all wishing to be full,

That, the Kelly in my memory file.

Kelly ranches still, and in ninety four,

His mischievous laugh, echoed once more.

Keith Jesperson

Keith, he was also out Mill Iron way,

We, a shared interest in firearms,

But he with more knowledge, he far outweighed,

My grasp was book learned, and his from hand’s charm.

Prairie dog shoot on his place, a heyday,

Some from our class took part, in a spring’s warmth,

I, without eye glasses searched for our prey,

An old fence post shotgunned in two, transform.

Keith ingenious, an inventive buffet,

He, bathed in pragmatism, non-alarm,

I hear his sharp laugh now, as in those days,

Caliber or bore, he’d say, to confirm

Keith to Billings metalworks, off he went,

Lathes turn, shavings fall, and there, Keith invents.

Lynette Johnson (Donahey)

Lynette was out from nearer to Camp Crook,

Red hair and smiles, is what I recite,

Nice girl, didn’t diva, quiet brook,

American otherwise, “say cheese”, bright.

As we were not neighbors, we of same books,

And quiet people, are unknown despite,

Sharing class space through years, same farming roots,

Our class was unique, some mostly polite.

She was in our polite camp, cheerful looks,

Thankfully smiles remain, only right,

And this classmate’s is stamped, while I write,

Lost latent friends, we, unknown fellow cooks.

Lynette out Capitol way, farm and ranch,

With auburn hair, being herself, carte blanche.

Bryce Johnston

Bryce, as a classmate always Ridgeway proud,

In grade school I stayed with him to fish,

Large bullheads, more than want, we then avowed,

Sunday fish fry, outside butterflies whish.

And church before, loaves given, we enshroud,

That day, it, over most, no need to wish.

Long distance on track, around us, the crowd,

His long stride recalled, two mile flourish.

Boy of faith, within class respect allowed,

He didn’t veer from path, spiritual rich,

Days wasted by some, were not his field plowed,

Truth to self, not a given, souls nourished.

He, the boy of faith, to a man of faith,

He was on the right track, no fears from wraith.

Kris Keith

Shirtsleeve relative, Kris, a top student,

Saluted in seventy-four, she spoke,

Kris, she was our class voice, total augment,

She of faith as well, not under a cloak.

Not shy of debate with best minds unbent,

Most of us not within her league, an oak,

While us willows sat silent, prudent,

Kristine was not challenged — our yolk.

Her own kin in town, with twelve years class spent,

To my eight, revered by all, with no joke,

She, most of our class skeletal cement,

Call back her raised hand, her voice, to evoke.

Professor of economics, she is,

Could it be anything else — once a whizz...

Next week Sherri King (Curry), Annelea Kittlemann (Redding), Elston Loken, Mike Quade and Kim Rehbein.

— Erwin Curry, CCHS Class of 1974


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